Fallout: New Vegas
by AlexHarvey42
Summary: A novelisation of the game, because the plot and setting are too damn good to go to waste. Our Courier finds himself in a rich and confusing world, where many are one bullet, one drink or one mistake from death. Currently we're in Goodsprings. Updates will be frequent daily, ish if reviews are encouraging/constructive. And feel free to pitch in with ideas - you will be credited
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer - I do not own Fallout or any of the characters therein.**

**Fallout**

**New Vegas**

**Prologue**

If an unbiased onlooker were capable of taking in the vast span of human history, they might say it all started on October 23rd, 1959, when a group of promising young musicians were killed in a horrific bus crash. John, Paul, George, Stu and Pete. The driver was distracted, listening to his vacuum-tube radio through which the authoritative tones of the leader of the US Republican Party was giving yet another powerfully rhetorical speech about the weakness of his opponent. Mr Nixon would sweep into power a few weeks later with almost sixty per cent of the popular vote, the grateful reward given by an American people for the GOP's harsh stance on Korea.

Perhaps it was the decision to launch the first strike, whoever's it had been. Whichever hand, Chinese or American, didn't really matter any more. Not on October 23rd, 2281, 204 years after the 120-minute Great War in which two billion were killed, a further two billion within a month as radiation sickness became advanced radiation sickness and headaches gave way to vomiting, tumours, and death. That first winter dealt with two billion more, and the human race lurched from crisis to crisis for the next three decades, approaching extinction every winter.

Then the first Vaults opened, the wealthy, the lucky and the paranoid suffusing the wretched remains of the human race – perhaps a few million in the defunct United States of America and former Canada, if that. Humankind hung on, just about, against total societal collapse, strange mutations borne of radiation and engineered viruses, and themselves. New societies evolved, ever so slowly.

So it was that on October 23rd, 2281, the New California Republic, a swollen morass of assimilated tribes and towns, a million souls spanning hundreds of miles, found itself in the Mojave Desert facing the unknown numbers of an empire known as Caesar's Legion, cast adrift in history once again, not knowing what the following spring's campaign season would bring.

And a courier with the Mojave express was about to be shot in the head.

Twice.

Surprisingly, this courier will survive, although he does not at this juncture of the story know this. He will also end up an integral part of the war raging in the Mojave, a conflict of the new-old, new and old-old worlds. A conflict fought, in part, with the rifles, bullets, cigarettes and drugs, tactics and strategy, of the Great War, the wars before that, even the skirmishes between the very first men, as soon as civilisation had allowed the destruction of the other.

Because war... war never changes.


	2. Rumours of my demise

"Ah, there we are. Can you hear me? Don't sit up too quick now." He ignored the command, sat up as fast as possible. Everything was a blur. Breathe. Focus.

There was a kindly looking old man watching him, holding a medical instrument. "Good," the old man continued, "You're awake. You've been through quite a lot, son. Took two bullets to the temple." He smiled, wryly, "Least I fished out two, so I hope that's all."

"Where..." dry throat. "Where am I?" He asked. It was a doctor's surgery, he could tell, quite well done up, with mostly intact prewar furniture, medical beds, equipment piled neatly on crates. Not a hot zone, no gunfire outside, yellow sunlight filtering through the dusty air.

"Easy now, just relax and get your bearings. I'm Doc Mitchell, and you're in the town of Goodsprings. What about your name? Can you tell me your name?"

"I..." What was his name? Trying to think about it made his head itch. He focused, and felt his brain crackle. It was gone. "I don't know."

"Sorry son," Mitchell said, in a calm, even tone, "I had to go rooting around in your noggin to get all the bits of lead out. I've got a neural regraftaliser but it's pretty beat up, and the facial reconstructotron isn't in great shape either. Maybe this'll jog the old cranium?" He grabbed a mirror and handed it, gently, to the man on the bed. He felt his fingers move in a familiar way, and took it from the old man, looked down. A face, his face, he supposed. Familiar, and yet not. Young, somewhat, but worn, a few scars here and there, with a subtle but noticeable wrinkle on his left temple where the bullets must have gone in.

"Anything?" asked Mitchell.

"No, nothing."

"Well, this is all you had on you when you came in," the Doc replied, handing over a piece of worn paper, a small leather bag about the size of his hand, and a bottle of some liquid that was almost recognisable, but just out of reach. "Says you're a courier with the Mojave Express. So I think it's best we call you Courier until your name comes back to you or you pick a new one." He watched the man who had survived two shots to the head look down at the paper, squinting. "You read, son?"

"Yes." The paper was familiar. The shapes on it made sense – his mind was finding some purchase at last.

DELIVERY ORDER

SIX (6) OF SIX (6)

INSTRUCTIONS

Deliver the package at the north entrance to the Vegas Strip, by way of Freeside. An agent of the recipient will meet you at the checkpoint, take possession of the package, and pay for the delivery. Bring the payment to Johnson Nash at the Mojave Express agency in Primm.

Bonus on completion: 250 caps.

MANIFEST

This package contains:

One (1) Oversized Poker Chip, composed of Platinum

CONTRACT PENALTIES

You are an authorized agent of the Mojave Express Package until delivery is complete and payment has been processed, contractually obligated to complete this transaction and materially responsible for any malfeasance or loss. Failure to deliver the proper recipient may result in forfeiture of your advance and bonus, criminal charges, and/or pursuit by mercenary reclamation teams. The Mojave Express is not responsible for any injury or loss of life you experience as a result of said reclamation efforts.

"I remember..." said the Courier, very quietly.

_He's kneeling in the ditch. The smell of smoke, acrid but sweet, in the air. Several large men in tribal outfits smoking, bickering. Night._

_We got the fucker, let's get out of here and get paid, says one._

_Look who's waking up over here, says the other._

_Look up. The bonds around his wrists are too tight, so nothing to be done. There's another man, not like the others. His suit is pristine, stylish. Hair slick with grease._

_"I don't know how you Khans do things, buddy, but I never kill a cat without looking him in the eye," he says, his accent ostentatiously assumed. Like a bad actor playing at being a different sort of person. He walks up to the Courier kneeling in the dirt, drops his cigarette, pockets a flashy gold lighter._

_"Sorry pally," he says, drawing a gold plated pistol and drawing back the slide, "From where you're kneelin' this must seem like a 24-carat run of bad luck." Flicking off the safety. "But the truth is, daddio, the game was rigged from the start." Taking aim. "No hard feelin's, okay pal?"_

_Bang._

_Bang._

_Blackness, then dirt, everywhere, closing down on him, suffocating. A scratching noise, and then metal arms pulling him from the grave in an impossibly strong grip. Trying to fight, choking on the blood streaming from his head. Passing out._

"I was shot by a..." how to describe the man? "A man in a fancy suit. Had some tribals with him. And a robot?"

"That'd be Victor," said the Doc, "He dug you out, gave me a fright dumpin' you on my doorstep at God knows what in the middle of the night. Good thing though, 'cos a few more minutes and you might not 'a pulled through."

"He took... he took the chip I was delivering."

"Folks 'round the Mojave don't generally kill other folks without robbin' them first, son," Doc Mitchell said, "Least, not too often."

The Courier sighed. "I need to get it back, finish the delivery." Doc Mitchell looked surprised.

"Quite the sense of duty you got there, son."

"Well," the Courier smirked, trying to ignore his splitting headache, "I need something to do while I wait to find out who the hell I am."

Mitchell nodded. "Not just yet though, Courier. Got some tests to run." He smiled. "See if your dogs are still barkin', or of those bullets left you nuttier than a brahmin patty."


	3. Build mass with sass

"What does this look like?" Inkblot. It looked like an inkblot. Although...

"I'm embarrassed to say what it looks like," said the Courier. The Doc smirked.

"Fair enough, enough inkblots," he said, "Let's try some word association. Mother."

"Uh... father."

"Light."

"Dark."

"Night."

"Day."

Doc Mitchell was silent for a few moments. "Okay, let's just skip all this. I mean, the lady who gave me these tests didn't tell me how to interpret them so... well, guess it doesn't mean anything."

"Sorry," said the Courier, "Guess I'm not so good at word association." He coughed again.

"Dry throat, huh? Dyin'll do that to you," said Mitchell, "You had a bottle of Sunset with you, remember?" The Courier had left the almost-familiar bottle on the table when Mitchell had started to evaluate him, and now looked back down at it. He picked it up, turned it over in his hand.

Sunset Sarsaparilla. Something clicked in his head. He said, "Build mass with sass."

"Some things are starting to come back to you, then," said Doc Mitchell, smiling.

"Little bit." Things were becoming a little clearer – flashes of childhood, youth, the journey from California to Nevada. "I remember... I had more with me, didn't I? More than this?" He pointed at the bottle, the small leather pouch which turned out to have about fifty bottle caps in it, and the shipping order.

"I kept this back in case it turned out you were some Powder Ganger or a full-blown nutcase," Mitchell admitted, "Sorry son, can never be too careful." With this he reached into the worn satchel next to his chair and produced a weathered pistol, a knife, and another small satchel. The Courier found it contained a collection of syringes and chem bags.

"Rad-X, Med-X, RadAway, StimPaks..." he muttered to himself, "I remember these." The pistol was a reassuring weight in his hand; he flicked the safety off and on, took practiced aim at the mantelpiece in the Doc's living room. It was a very familiar weight. "I remember this." He pulled out the clip – it was a few bullets light. "I think I've..." it was an odd thing to suddenly remember, disturbing, "Killed before."

"Not too unusual 'round these parts, Courier," said Mitchell, sadly, "Not too unusual at all." He stood and went round to the radio on the mantel, fiddled with the dials. "Maybe we can jog the old memory a bit with some... ah, there we go." The radio crackled into life, and began to suffuse the room with tinny music.

_...own of Agua Fria rode a stranger one fine day  
Hardly spoke to folks around him, didn't have too much to say  
No one dared to ask his business, no one dared to make a slip_

The Courier sang under his breath, _"For the stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip..."_

_Big iron on his hip..._

"Good tune," said Mitchell, "You recognise it?"

"Yeah," said the Courier. It was stirring a lot of recollections, feelings, impulses. "Is there a bar in this town?"

"Ah, drinker, huh?"

"I think so." He smirked. "I feel like a drink, so I guess..."

"There's the Saloon just down the way, dead in front of you as you leave," said Mitchell, "Thing is, Big Iron's a bit close to home at the moment in town, so you'd best be..."

The song had stopped, and it was the next broadcast which stopped the good Doctor in his tracks. _"Hello Mojave, it's me, Mister New Vegas,"_ drawled the machine, _"And you are all looking so wonderful tonight. News now – a courier who was shot in the head outside Goodsprings has reportedly regained consciousness, and is expected to make a full recovery. Now that's a delivery service you can rely on."_

"How," said the Courier, noting Mitchell's evident surprise, "How the hell does anyone in New Vegas know about any of this?"

Mitchell was silent, hoping for a clue from the radio, but it merely burbled, _"The preceding news segment brought to you by Gunderson Reds. Gunderson's – the same great flavour, twenty times a pack,"_ before launching into a Big Band number.

At this, the front door swung open and barrelling down the hallway and into the sitting room came the robot which the Courier recalled digging him out of his grave, the robot which had supposedly saved his life – a boxy body, a screen for a face, two powerful grappling arms, and all balanced on a single and surprisingly small wheel. The screen showed a frozen image of a grinning cowboy.

"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!" the robot announced in a twangy, southern voice, filtered through speakers but still unmistakeably that of the most stereotypical cowboy, "You made it through! Howdy, partner!" It trundled up to the Courier, who had stood in alarm, and attempted to twinkle at him. Hampered by its construction, it simply cocked its 'head' to one side and momentarily lost its balance.

"Hello, Victor," said Mitchell, eyeing the robot with obvious suspicion.

"Howdy Doc!" the robot – Victor – replied, spinning to face the old man, "You did a rootin' tootin' good job on this young colt and no mistake, yes sir! I knew if anyone could dig two nine mil slugs out of a cowpoke, it'd be you." The Courier was trying to shake the impression that if Victor were human, he would be grinning enough to split his face in two.

"I'm just finishing up here, Victor," said Mitchell, "Why don't you talk to our friend later?"

"Okey-doke!" chimed Victor, turning to the Courier, "See you in a tick, partner!" With that, he trundled back out of the open door, closing it behind him.

"What," said the Courier, "In the fuck was that thing?"

Mitchell sighed. "That was Victor. Don't ask."


End file.
